Warning: somewhat graphic…somewhat.
This is the ringer of stories that I should probably—definitely keep to myself, but it’s just such a sad, painful, and tragic experience (which will undoubtedly traumatize me for the rest of my days) that it would be an injustice to keep it from you for your laughing pleasure. So, let me take a deep breath, and maybe you should, too (inhale, exhale, woosa)…okay. I was raped and robbed in Las Vegas. I was raped and robbed in Las Vegas by two BIG BLACK BITCHES. Now, when I say BIG, I mean you could attach them to a crane, mark their sides with “Biggie” and “NotSoSmalls,” swing them into an abandoned skyscraper, and watch it topple to the ground with one hit. When I say BLACK, I’m really not trying to be racist, but talking like super-ghettofied, “don’t miss a Denzel movie” black. When I say BITCHES, I think I’ll have to tell you the story for you to fully grasp the term. Before we get to the sexual assault, please allow me to set the stage.
I have a great friend from college (henceforth known as “Bro Dude”) who lives there, and my parents were on vacation, so I thought I’d take a casual trip to Sin City to see them—there is no such thing as a “casual trip” to Sin City. I fought a good fight to keep it tranquil, but by mid-afternoon, the big party that surrounded our quality family-bonding finally got the best of me, and my youth. The just like that, any chance of a calm night was gone.
4 PM - Bro Dude alerts me he’s off work, and ready to let loose. We proceed to catch up, and pregame in the Bro Dude way: drinking moderately priced vodka, zero calorie energy drinks, and (of course) watching UFC. It was awesome.
10 PM - I realize my first mistake: drinking not one, but two tall energy drinks. I completely ignore the mistake.
10:30ish PM - We arrive on the strip, and I make my second costly mistake: purchasing not one, but two Twisted Teas. (I didn’t finish them, but still.)
11:Something PM - Boom—In the club, having a bomb time. My cousin has a table, he has a couple bottles, and there are plenty of girls with less dignity than myself. Good sign.
LATE - I make my third and most regrettable mistake. In the typical Dan Ray fashion, I find the biggest women to dance with. Why? Because I can only imagine how funny it would be for onlookers to see this little white guy dancing with not one, but two BIG BLACK BITCHES. It turns out that karma would find it to be just as humorous.
VERY LATE - I head to the exit to catch some fresh air with all intentions on returning—I did not return. Instead, I would have an experience that I will never forget. Ever.
Behind me followed the two BIG BLACK BITCHES. They must have taken some kind of liking to me, and for that I can’t blame them. What I can blame them for is the accosting that followed. Now, I won’t say exactly how we ended up alone, but I will say that I was grabbed in a manner to where I had no choice but to play puppet. As we all know, there is nothing funny about a puppet. With my life (and balls) in the clutches of on of their hands, the two BIG BLACK BITCHES sandwiched me between their masses of fat, and started…well, to put it lightly, having their way with me.
*Before we go any further, I need to let you know that there was no penetration of either end, of either end. So, you can relax, or (if you’re a sick, sick sole) you can be disappointed.
Anyway, as my clothes are being removed, my penis takes a tugging like it were holding the Golden Gate Bridge during an earthquake. All the while, I hear what I believe was an attempt at dirty talk. I have a hard time recalling exactly what was said: A) Because I don’t want to remember, and B) It seems so farce. One bit that comes to mind was something along the lines of, “Oh, yeah. You like that you white boy?” Again, it’s hard even for me to believe, because it sounds like it came from the prison scene of some terribly cheesy crime drama. (That, and I think it’s a defense mechanism of my brain to act like this whole thing never happened.) Anyway, back to the matter in hand.
“What am I to do?” I think to myself as the molestation persists. You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just kick some ass, and run. Let me tell you, ladies, a man is powerless when his prized possession is in a vice grip. If I were to be a hero, just think of the detached consequences. I decided that my only exit strategy was to be a man, take the rape, and wait for my only moment of escape…the exchange.
Now, hogs don’t typically share, but I know a switch is imminent. The very second I could feel the clasp soften, allowing the other BIG BLACK BITCH to take a turn, I shoulder ram her, shove off the other BIG BLACK BITCH, and hold up my pants as I sprint for dear life away from BOTH BIG BLACK BITCHES!
I keep sprinting. I run like never before: up and down stairs, around every corner, in and out of buildings, and going full speed on straightaways. Not stopping for breath. Not stopping to see where I’m going. Not even stopping to hit a penny slot. Just sprinting. (Now that I look back, the effort was a little excessive, because with their size and weight, they wouldn’t have caught me past a slight jog, or even a speed walk.)
5:00 AM - I’m sitting in the lobby of Caesar’s Palace, trying to collect myself. None of my buddies are answering the phone. I can’t go to my parents’ room for multiple reasons. I can’t go to the police, for the same shameful reason. The most logical thing I can think to do is order breakfast. Yes, breakfast. It was the best meal I think I had ever eaten in my entire life, and I don’t really remember what I ordered.
5:30 AM - It occurs to me that I have, in my front left pocket, $200 of gambling money from my Pops. I also have, in my front left pocket, another $100 of my own money. I quickly did the math: that’s $300 dollars! ha-HA, I could easily afford a hotel room! Approaching the pretty receptionist, she greets me with the standard, “Hello Sir. How may I help you this morning?” Giving her a polite “one second, let me grab my wad of cash” gesture, I reach into my–front–left–pocket.
“Hmm…” I think to myself before exclaiming, “I’ve been robbed by two BIG BLACK BITCHES!”
Everyone stops for a moment, and the receptionist (looking ever so confused) replies, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help you with that, but you look like you’ve had a rough night. How about a free stay in the governor’s suite with an all cost paid room service, and a special message from our most sensual masseuse.” She winked, unbuttoned her top button, and slid me the key.
You wish this had a happy ending. Here’s what really happened:
Upon discovering that I had been robbed, I decide to bite the bullet and get a room on my credit card. I needed a room where I could curl up all alone, and feel sorry for myself until I fall asleep.
“Miss?” I begin in the saddest, most pathetic way possible, “Do you have any cheap rooms available? I’ll take anything at this point; a broom closet, if you have one.”
She checks… Nothing. I’m crushed. Sensing my weariness and despair, she drops the phony receptionist façade, and speeks to me in such a comforting tone; like I was a lost boy looking for his mother, “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll find you something.” She makes a few calls, and finds me a room across the street for $60. Hot damn, that will do.
I thank the kind lady, but before exiting I realize that I haven’t paid for breakfast. Now, I could have easily left, and Caesar himself would have been stuck with the bill, but the guilt would have killed me if I had not tipped the poor waiter who had to deal with my pitiful self. So, there went more money.
Sunrise - The whole day is almost behind me, and it that’s when everything started setting in: I got up at 8AM, exercised, spent all day in sun and heat, ate one meal, drinking, partying, no sleep, sexual abuse, complete dehydration, emotional strain, and crashing from caffeine overload. Out of sheer exhaustion, I’m having trouble holding myself up at the other hotel counter. Maybe the Caesar’s receptionist got it wrong, or maybe fleabag hotel sensed my despair and took advantage of it, because the $60 room turned into a $109 room. Whatever, I need sleep. Checkout at 11 AM? Whatever, I need sleep. You know you’ll regret this in the future? Whatever, I regret everything: I just need sleep.
10:30 AM - Bro Dude calls. I have 1% battery life. With the only stroke of luck in Vegas, my phone stays alive long enough for him to find me. When he did, I felt like a refugee being rescued from some warring African nation; he probably felt like he liberated a mouse from a rattrap, but Bro Dude had no idea what I had been through. It was too early to tell him the full story. He bought me another breakfast, took us home, and I kept it to myself. Then, I slept.
That’s what happened in my first trip to Las Vegas. I need not say why Dan Ray Sucks, and if you can’t figure it out, then you suck, too.
Tips to suck less:
-Leave a comment.
-fb/tweet/just tell your friends, friends’ friends, random bums–I don’t care, just do it.
-Finally, don’t dance with women over twice your weight, or three times your width.